The Legend of the Bat
by A Wish On the Moon
Summary: There's a legend whispered around the streets of Gotham, of a Man and a Bat, of a murder and a wish, and of the only thing left that could save that dead city from herself. (His clan lives on.). The future of Gotham, through the eyes of the survivors. Introspection.


Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any licensed characters or intellectual properties that were used in the making of this work.

* * *

There's a legend whispered around the streets of Gotham, of a Man and a Bat, of a murder and a wish, and of the only thing left that could save that dead city from herself.

They speak of an entire clan devoted to this man, an entire family raised to fight and protect and flourish there. They speak of the many, many creatures of the night, of feathered things with leather wings, and sleek felines, — _these glowing suns_ — all tainted by Gotham's might.

They speak of immortals and metas, shadows and magic, blood and pain and death, skewing the truth of the men and women all hiding behind the mask, all still children in their own right. All still too human and broken. All fighting back against their oppression.

The old officers will talk of them all fighting for peace and safety against the crime and corruption. Only a select few will mention the fighting as a form of retribution and escape, a way to be free of all of the tragedies they've come to share.

And yet, all will bark of the darkness and fear these creatures of the night instill. They can't be human, can never die. For the people of that damned city, the legend of the Bat will never truly fade.

_Until now._

* * *

It's been decades since the Dark Knight of Gotham had been unmasked and killed, decades since it was revealed that Bruce Wayne, Gotham's White Knight, was the Bat all along, decades since the man supposedly died of old age — _was_ _assassinated_ — and laid to rest..

They had had a new Bat at the time — some guessed the fifth or sixth, maybe even seventh, in a long, long line — but he, too, soon faded away, and New Gotham was left to its Jokerz gangs and underground mobs and good old Gotham violence once more.

Rumors had flown about, Cadmus and clones and other alternatives, but they were quickly shot down by the hands of the grandson of Bruce Wayne, the newest successor to the Wayne fortune. By the time he had died, there were no Bats, and many believed him to have been the newest, and final, Bat in the legacy.

Laughter became violence, and violence became death. Death became murder became war, and lives fell like puzzle pieces. Soon, the great birds and bats the people had spoken of began to fade away, disappearing into the ranks one by one.

Some died, others abandoned the hopeless city, and still others turned in their wings out of guilt and shame. A few went mad, they say, while a others finally hung themselves to dry, great beasts killed by their own claws and talons.

The people of Gotham had known that the Crusade could not last forever; people, even legends, could not carry the weight of a city for all eternity, even if many had expected them to.

And so they disappear, one by one, swallowed by the darkness, leaving little behind but this New Gotham, this new Bat, — a phantom of its former self — and this new-old ring of corruption in their wake.

* * *

The crime bosses tell humorous tales sometimes, especially the ones that have survived the passage of time. Black Mask, in particular, has mellowed out, and wheezes out rolls of assassination attempts gone wrong, tales of drug-trafficking and bird-shooting and hero-slaying.

Sometimes, he speaks of the new Red Hood, the one after Joker and the most memorable of them all, especially after all those little kids trying to imitate the big, bad monster. The Jokerz gang is nothing in comparison to this guy, he'll tell them, this guy who wanted to control crime by taking over the drug trade, wanted to play him and kill him, wanted to murder the Joker for all he has done by nearly becoming him, himself.

Other times, he talks about killing the fourth bird the Dark Knight had taken in, and his employees can't help but wince in anticipation — expecting the long-dead Bat, and his wrath at the loss of even one of his tiny, little kids. This instinctive response had been engrained into their very beings for decades, and it is hard to break free of the Bat's reign of terror.

Others, like the Penguin, cackle and snort and talk about the Cat and the Bat, together, a messy little thing that had amused everyone in-the-_know_ for years. He'll showcase his heirlooms and bird fetish with his clawed bodyguards, and talk of exciting exploits he'd had with the Princess of Plunder herself.

A shame, he'd say, what happened to them. Sometimes, he'll mutter something about the fifth bird, if only because even he knows it is better not to slander the name of the League of Shadows.

The Joker, that damned parasite, will laugh and laugh and _laugh_, behind bars or not, all the while rambling about all the things he's done to his little birdies, the ones the Bat had never let him play with. How he'd clipped wings and broken bones and twisted one of them for himself.

Sometimes he might tell his visitors of the Bat and his Crusade, of immortals and promises of money or power. He'd tell them of his time at Arkham, and of the poor little lady he'd broken for himself. He'd tell them of the people he's carved up and made to smile again, made to laugh and laugh at the funniness that is this entire, fucked-up life, all while grinning and grinning and grinning — goddamn _smiling_.

Only a few have heard him talk about the wife that had betrayed him and that the Bat had let die, of the disaster that his career as a soldier — _mercenary? He can't remember_ — had taken when he'd been held prisoner during the war. Even fewer still have learned that it was the Bat who made him, accidentally let slip into a vat of acid and brought back broken and insane.

The Cat's long since been killed, they'll say, died at Hush's hands, and the Riddler's driven himself _insane_ with his genius. He no longer wanders out at night to wreak havoc, as old and tired as he is.

Even the Scarecrow has given in, too tired to hold onto the madness of his family and too old to give much importance to his finances. Many of the Old Rogues can find old Dr. Jonathan Crane smoking cigars in the more urban areas of Gotham, pondering the fog up in the sky and chattering at whoever has joined him, or whoever is willing to lend an ear.

Sometimes, he'll explain his history, the cruelty of family — the death of his wife, the creation of _fear_ —in the world-weary way of the nostalgic and uncaring. Other times, he'll make medicine and toxins in equal measure for the old villains still willing to fight.

Most of the time, Scarecrow will talk about the first robin, an unusual order by Deathstroke, and how fear had been the greatest power he had had over all the inmates back at Arkham, back before he'd lost Dr. Quinzel to the Joker and his fear to the future generations.

And Two-Face? Retired, the best damn cop they had had out there then, especially with the Mob War that had erupted. He's had his fair share of dealings on the dark side of the law, so much so that the Bat had given up on him by the third bird. He'd beaten up the First, the Second, the Third, but Black Mask had gotten to the fourth brat before he ever could.

The Fifth probably the most interesting. Murdered by his own damn mother, and avenged sevenfold. They're a clan of monsters, after all, and no one denies that they protect their own, no matter how wayward the sons, no matter how impulsive the daughters — no matter how angry and deadly and afraid the birds.

Things get the haziest around then. The bosses will argue over who was the Sixth, or Seventh or Eighth or Ninth. Some are pretty sure the First was a girl, — Selina's kid, they'll say — while still others are sure the second was — another street brat, like all the other odd-numbered birds, and has anyone noticed that the Bat had a pattern to these things?

Some are sure the fifth bird survived, somehow, got hitched with the First's kid — and isn't that something to think about? — or was it the baby Flash's little girl? Naw, it was probably the archer's. Wasn't it?

The Joker just laughs and laughs, warning others that this discussion is heading into _his_ territory, the crazy realm where the truth was hiding, hiding, hiding beneath Glasgow smiles and bleached and wrinkled skin and bloodshot eyes.

The group will settle down then, leaving the Clown Prince of Crime — aged and far more insane than he had been, then — to his understandings. No one, even now that the Bats are gone, wants to know how the madman thinks, how far the network of the Clan truly stretched — how immortal the Legacy truly had been.

* * *

One of the few Arkham inmates still left in their prime — _Poison Ivy, they called her _— will merely scoff at the pitiful villains left in the gathering, and wonder where they have gone, these criminals that she had respected once, a long, long time ago.

She's one of the small minority that still remembers the early days of Gotham's Knights, one of the very, very few from that era still capable of holding a candle to the strength that was the Underground.

She remembers getting the Bat and his first little bird — one, she knows, only _lived_ because the Crime Kingdom adored the Robin that they, themselves, had helped raise. She remembers a love of plants and Mother Nature, a need to save the environment, the screeching of dying flora and the ache of poisoned roots.

Most of all, she remembers the weakness of men to their pheromones, and the speedster nephew she'd never met, even after all these years of him running around.

She'll still speak chemical science and gossip information, just like the Cat would had she still been in the business, alive and kicking, still crack jokes like Harley Quinn once would, after she'd been twisted but before the Joker got her good, but — she's not the same, wizened by age and experience and the horrors of her world.

Though Pamela Isley would kill for her vegetation to flourish, Poison Ivy now sits and sings in old barrooms and taverns, reminiscing over lost times and the hope she once held in saving her children — _not real children, mind, just those freaky-ass plants of hers_ — one she no longer has.

Sometimes, Joker's girl will join the gatherings the criminal element holds — in warehouses, in back alleys, and sometimes in nifty little bars that still hold the grand piano from old times, good times, when things were cleaner, safer, better. Surprisingly, her voice is melodic, and she'll hum sweetly, this harlequin madwoman with a court jester's hat jingling and thoughts simmering in a relaxed warmth.

Other times, though, she'll be buzzing around with the crazy in her head and the mallet in her hands. Most guys know to avoid her on those days. Those that don't — well, they'll learn.

Rumor has it that Harley Quinn's not all that crazy — just like Harvey Dent was once a good cop, or that the Joker — Jack Napier, mercenary for hire? — was the third brat's uncle and not all that bad, or that Poison Ivy had once cared for the plants in a _normal, non-fanatical _way.

Rumor's also got it that the crazy bitch's got a little girl — Duela Dent, some will say, and everyone'll cringe, thinking of Two-Face. She'd called herself Joker's Daughter, the Riddler's, the Penguin's, the works. Some have heard her call herself the Cat's sidekick, Scarecrone for the old Dr. Crane, Card Queen for who knows — even said she was Harlequin, herself.

Became a Titan for a while, they say. Worked and worked and worked to reform — but, like the Man-Bat experiment that's been running around, just ended up going darkside.

Deathstroke's got connections like that, ya' know? And don't even get me started on that state-sanctioned Suicide Squad of theirs…

* * *

The lesser-known bosses don't show up no more.

Freeze's been out of commission for decades, living with his wife up North — up where he's finally found a cure for her condition and where nothing, nothing, _nothing_ but ice surrounds them and no one, and I mean no one, can get at them.

_He's probably perfected the secret to immortality, or something. Who knows? 's not like it matters to anyone in this shitty New Gotham we're all living in._

The older, non-meta, human players have all moved out or been shot down, though. They weren't so lucky. Dr. Freeze got his freedom, sure, but Zucco fell like a sack of bricks when the first bird finally got a hold of him.

_Haven't ya' heard? Guy killed the kid's parents. If Boy Blunder'd never gotten over it then, he's wasn't going to any later. Probably murdered the mob boss himself — or tortured him to suicide._

No one really knows what, exactly, happened to him, and no one wants to. Everyone in Gotham knows that while the Bat doesn't kill, the same rule had never applied to his kids.

Especially not to his Robins.

Carmine Falcone grew old and flew the coop. He hadn't been so willing to stick his neck out after the big No Man's Land thing that happened back in the old city. And, like Killer Croc, like Mad Hatter — like all the old villains with _any sense_ did — he stuck to his guns and got out of Gotham while still on top.

Hugo Strange is still off doing his own thing, and Magpie's being his dunderhead self. Heard Killer Croc and the Firefly had moved to the Spider's city — or was it the Green Arrow's? Mad Hatter and Killer Moth followed the Titans for a while, the speedsters had a death in the family, and a bunch of the hero kiddies got hooked up with some of the H.I.V.E. villains.

Professor Pyg's probably off carving up another bird and generally being disgusting.

No one really knows what happened to Ravager, — Deathstroke's daughter, they say — or where the Red Hood's hoodlum went. A few of the Catgirls are off reforming or being master thieves, — could go either way for them — and generally being the fun talk of villains everywhere.

Rumor has it that Clayface — the cop with an agenda against the Bat — still haunts the damned sewage systems. Definitely know Blockbuster gave the first bird a run for his money up in Blüdhaven nearly a century back. Know for a fact that Cain and Hush have sworn themselves off Gotham, and good riddance to them.

A bunch of stuff happened. It's not important.

_Nothing is, anymore…_

* * *

_The biggest story Gotham's underbelly tells is of its dead._

* * *

There's a plot of land on the outskirts of town, derelict and unkempt. The undertaker rarely stops by for the upkeep, and the graves keep piling up and up and up. There's moss covering the older headstones, and spiders' webs stretching across the few trees bordering the place.

Gotham's wicked, cloudy rains and gloomy, depressing weather is always accompanied by the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning, and it never helps to tone down the eerie darkness. Shadows flit back and forth, back and forth, while candles flames flicker and flare, burning, burning, and never dying down.

Anyone who's been there knows not to come back a second time — if they make it back. Those who _do_ return always talk about the echoing emptiness of the graveyard, — there's nothing else to call it, after all.

They talk about the smoke and ash and smell of burnt, decaying flesh, of broken glass and discarded pistols and rifles and bullets. They talk about the chill in the air and the warmth of their breaths being sucked away, of the happiness leaving them as the wind nips at their skin and kisses their troubles away.

The ones that are worst off are the ones that come back and quit cold turkey, fixing up their lives and getting the hell out of New Gotham as quickly as they can.

Not one who has run away has ever bothered to returned.

* * *

They say they can see the shadow of a bat following them, the screeching of birds and the fluttering of leathery wings sounding loudly in their ears.

Some have gone so far as to say that they've felt the tremors of hounds shifting the earth, the golden-eyed glare of leopards and felines glaring at them from the treetops. They hear dark whispers and sense powerful magic focused there.

The Joker will laugh, then, and let others ponder over his words. He'll say that the Old Bat's ghost haunts those grounds, say that the birds and the bats and the whole of the Bat Clan still lives in that pit —

_Lazarus Pits_, someone will inevitably bring up, and quickly be shot down for their efforts. They don't exist in this new day and age, where magic has faded into obscurity and immortality is from the X-genes in metas rather than achievable through the dark and arcane arts.

No one really wants to believe that the Bat still lives, even after all these years he's been buried. The criminals need to break free of his looming shadow, need to get over him enough to be able to do vile deeds and _mean_ them.

It's taken so long for the common citizen to even look up long enough to assert himself, let alone for the common man to muster up the courage to be a _real_ villain. The progress shouldn't be stopped or hindered, should be allowed to run its course —

In the end, no one wants to be reminded that there's still something out there, watching them, finding them, hunting them down, and all but slaughtering them. No one wants to fear.

So the criminals laugh and joke and pretend — day-in, day-out — that everything's alright, that nothing is too out-of-place, that the world keeps spinning madly on with them at the top.

The older generations, the leaders of this city, know better than to join in on the façade. After all, they've grown with the Bat.

They know.

* * *

The visit to the graveyard isn't as unpleasant as everyone will say. It's not the land of the living, but — it isn't a home to the dead, either. It's just —

Tick-tock, tick-tock, and the clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking, counting up and down as the timer's numbers flash glaringly, no time left, no way to escape before the whole world blows up, and —

It's just the quiet, soothing hum of nightingales and orioles and fiery phoenixes, and the barking of dogs and howling of lone wolves and purring of cats and chanting of mages and —

It's the darkness shrouded in light, the misty fogs and constant drizzle and ever-present feeling that they're still her, they haven't left their own behind to live on, forever alone, they haven't —

It's nice, sometimes.

* * *

On the eve of every Hallow's Eve, it is said that a man with a red hood visits the cemetery. He's said to whisper a few prayers — words lost on the crisp and biting winds, before he pulls his leather jacket closer and lays a gun down on a grave.

On that night, there are blurry, flickering lights said to hover in the air, blinking in and out of sight. The rains are usually at their most torrential, near-flooding, and the city's residents know to stay in their homes.

On that night, it is said that a man cloaked in darkness climbs out of the grave and takes the offering, and always, always casts it aside. He stands like a statue, still and ever-present, and always, always seems oh-so-very disappointed.

On that night, the man with the red hood — _not a man, just a boy, a lost little boy_ — always, always shouts and screams and spits out caustic words, angry and bitter and lost and confused and —

On that night, he man of shadows always, always wraps his cloak around the kid, holds him tight and still and never lets go. The tears fall from the boy, then. And, although the man never speaks, his presence is enough, and — for that the boy is grateful.

On that night, it is said that transparent birds and bats hover over gravestones and flutter around the boy's head, chatting and chirping and so very happy. They sing and dance and leap across the air, humming and shrieking and speaking in the only way they know how. The black kitten that follows them out merely hides behind an older cat and snorts.

On that night, the boy sits and listens. He follows behind the blue-breasted nightingale with a half-formed scowl and blank, blank eyes. He sings with the robin and lets himself relax. He stares sadly at the paradise bird and takes warmth from the firebird, and listens to the oriole as she pecks, pecks, pecks, reprimanding him.

On that night, the boy stares sadly at the black bat as she sits back, mute. He holds the kitten closest, and lets the others chatter away. The younger bats follow the eldest one's lead, and simply bathe in the presence of the man-boy.

* * *

They say there's a woman that visits when he cannot, an exotic beauty draped in silk and knives and intoxicating perfume that drifts into the boneyard at the stroke of midnight. She always leaves bowls of water behind, bowls of green, green fire and power and _deathdeathdeath_.

They say she's a witch, a sorceress, — a vampire practicing her arts in the dead silence. Some whisper of immortals and hellish pits of spirit water and the blaxing fire of the desert.

Most know better than to notice her, and leave her be.

* * *

Eventually, it is time to leave, and a woman always, always comes to shake the boy awake. She whispers and smiles in a way that conceals her darker nature, but the boy complies, nonetheless. He leaves behind his guns and follows the woman — the sorcerer, the immortal, the one who visits every evening to pay her respects —

The boy leaves with her, and disappears into the streets of Gotham, once more hardened and angry and dangerous. He kills and kills and kills, loud and sarcastic and watching from the shadows.

As he always has, he takes over the crime, restricts it, controls it, and — makes it his own to command. The drug trade falls, the mercenaries lose so many of their contracts, and the monsters of the world still hide, day after day after day.

In the end, though the Bat has died and his Clan has faded away, his legacy still remains. For the boy that cannot die, for the Robin that _had_ died and been brought back and had never, ever aged —

For the final bird, he _was_ the Bat.

* * *

_And every time he left, only to return to his roots, to his family, to his grave, a lost little spirit without a soul, without a dream, without — a light to guide him home._

_So he wanders and he kills, and saves the damned innocent with all he has, for Gotham had never truly lost her protector, and the people had never truly lost their Knight._

* * *

When the world faced ruin and the blazing gateway to the fire he'd always been waiting for finally arrived, Jason laughed and laughed and laughed, in joy and pain and sadness, and at the end to his god-forsaken existence.

* * *

Rumor has it that the Bat and his Clan never really died. Those that know otherwise think that they've all rotted away.

There are very few who know, without a doubt, that the Bats live on.


End file.
